


I Would Beat With Your Heart As It Beats

by inexplicifics



Series: The Accidental Warlord and His Pack [4]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Healing, Introspection, Loyalty, M/M, Stabbing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-13
Updated: 2020-04-14
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:42:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23634031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inexplicifics/pseuds/inexplicifics
Summary: It's Eskel who smells the blood and finds the bard.The Warlord's right hand doesn't get to panic, so instead, Eskel...copes.
Relationships: Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Jaskier | Dandelion, Eskel & Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Eskel & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: The Accidental Warlord and His Pack [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1683661
Comments: 361
Kudos: 5229
Collections: Good Relationship Etiquette (familial included) - or Good BDSM Etiquette - or Good Relationship and BDSM Etiquette





	1. Chapter 1

Kaer Morhen often smells like blood - it’s full of Witchers, after all, and Witcher training isn’t gentle. But Kaer Morhen smells like _Witcher_ blood.

Not _human_.

Eskel is talking to the chamberlain when he smells it - a good man, the chamberlain, though Eskel had been suspicious as all fuck when he turned up more than a decade ago and begged for a chance to serve the Wolf who’d saved his daughter from the Ladies of the Wood and his previous lord's treachery. It’s about time for the annual cleaning of the chimneys, which always involves a lot of swearing and soot and the Cat Witchers competing to see which of them can climb up the insides of the chimneys the fastest, because all Cats are _completely_ insane, so Eskel and Jan are running through what needs to be done to prepare for the whole mess.

 _Jan_ doesn’t smell it - human nose, human senses. Eskel does.

Blood. And _Jaskier_.

“Get Triss and Geralt,” Eskel snaps, and _runs_.

Jaskier is lying on his front, one corridor away from his rooms, and there’s a spreading pool around him - fuck, a _huge_ pool, is there any blood left _in_ him? Eskel goes to his knees to put pressure on the wound, bellowing at the top of his lungs. Others will hear him - _Witchers_ will hear him.

Jaskier isn’t moving. That’s _wrong_. Jaskier is movement and energy, is light and life and song, is _always_ fidgeting, feet tapping, fingers wriggling as songs write themselves in his head. He’s so fucking _still_ , but the blood soaking Eskel’s hands and knees is hot, there’s still a pulse beneath his palms, there’s still - yes, fuck, _there_ , the tiny rise and fall of Jaskier’s back as he breathes.

A portal opens, and Eskel’s head snaps up, one hand going to the hilt of his steel sword - _no one_ is getting to the bard through him -

It’s Yen, thank _fuck_ , and Triss behind her with her hands already glowing. Triss throws herself down beside Eskel, uncaring of the blood that soaks her skirts, and gets glowing hands on Jaskier’s skin. Ciri, peering out through the portal, makes a sort of high horrified noise and bursts into tears. Yen snarls as the portal closes, Ciri safe on the other side.

“ _Who dared?_ ” Yen demands, and there’s death in her voice.

Geralt skids to a halt at the end of the corridor, half a hundred Witchers piling up behind him, all of them wide-eyed and half-feral from the smell of blood and panic. Eskel rises, hands dripping, trouser legs soaked, as beneath Triss’s glowing hands the wound in Jaskier’s back slowly, slowly closes.

“Whoever it was,” Eskel says softly, knowing they’ll all hear him, “they’ll smell of our bard’s blood. _Find them_.”

There’s a growl, half a hundred voices strong, and the Witchers scatter. Whoever it was, if they’re still within a mile of the keep, they’ll be found within the quarter-hour.

Geralt is frozen, staring in horror. Eskel looks down at his own dripping hands and shudders. _Jaskier’s_ blood. Fucking _gods_. Eskel has been soaked in blood before, and ichor, and other horrid things, but somehow _this_ feels worse than all of that - unclean, foul, _wrong_. Jaskier’s blood should never stain _anyone’s_ hands, much less Eskel’s.

“Jaskier,” Geralt rasps.

Triss doesn’t raise her head or turn her attention from her work. “He’ll live,” she says, two words and no more, and Geralt sags like a puppet whose strings have been cut, staggering against the wall in relief. Eskel sort of wants to do the same.

Yen puts a hand on Triss’s back, and Eskel can _see_ the energy she’s transferring to her friend, that pours down through Triss’s hands into their bard. He watches, heartrate slowly dropping to something more normal for a Witcher, as the wound closes, as Jaskier’s shallow breaths grow deeper.

Everything _still_ smells of blood.

“Jan,” Eskel says, and Jan appears as if by magic from around the corner. Sensible man, staying out of the way of angry Witchers and sorceresses. “This whole corridor needs to be scrubbed back to the stone, as soon as they’re done. Twice, maybe. If _any_ of us smell this again, we’re like to go feral.”

“Aye, sir,” Jan says. “We’ll bleach it clean.” He hesitates. “Shall I find you another set of clothing, sir?”

Eskel looks down at his trousers, at the blood-spatters on his shirt. “Yes. These will need to be burnt.” If he lets himself actually _feel_ the panic waiting at the edge of his consciousness, he’ll do something inadvisable - punch a wall, maybe - but thinking about solid practicalities is a good way to keep the panic at bay. “Get a new outfit for Jaskier and bring it to Geralt’s rooms. Geralt, you should get Ciri, make sure she’s safe.” Jan bows and goes, not running but _fast_.

“She’s in the stillroom,” Yen says. “Shielded tight. I’ll have to let you in.” She doesn’t move. Neither does Geralt.

The glow around Triss’s hands finally fades, and leaves Jaskier’s back unmarred save for a long white scar, like a wound a decade healed. She sits back with a sigh.

“He’ll sleep a while,” she says. “But he’ll be fine when he wakes. Maybe a little weak.” She swallows hard, and blinks back tears. “If we’d been even a _minute_ later -”

“Don’t,” Eskel rasps. He can’t think about that. “I’ll get him down to your rooms, Wolf. No point both of us being all over blood.”

“ _That_ I can fix,” Yen says, voice so even that it _must_ be concealing emotion too large to express. She flicks her fingers, and the pool of blood - and the thick liquid drying on Eskel’s hands and trousers, Triss’s hands and skirts - vanishes. It feels like Eskel’s just been scrubbed with harsh lye soap, but at least the stuff is _gone_.

Geralt crosses the few steps to Jaskier’s limp form so carefully it almost hurts to watch, and bends to gather his beloved into his arms. Jaskier sighs and his head lolls against Geralt’s shoulder, but he’s breathing, and there’s color in his cheeks. Geralt looks down at him for a long, long moment, and then steps closer to Eskel.

“Guard him,” he whispers.

“With my life,” Eskel promises, and takes Jaskier carefully into his own arms. The bard is light for all his height - little songbird, fine-boned and delicate - and Eskel holds him like fine porcelain.

“I’ll come down with you,” Triss says. “Should put some salves and bandages on, just to sort of encourage the healing to _stick_.”

“I’ll bring Ciri to you,” Geralt says, and turns to head for the stillroom. Yen clicks her tongue.

“ _Portal_ ,” she says pointedly, and opens one. On the other side, Eskel can hear Ciri weeping. Geralt goes through it at a sprint, with Yen barely half a step behind him.

Eskel cradles Jaskier close and walks, slowly and carefully so as not to jar his burden, down the stairs to Geralt’s rooms, Triss following at his heels.

*

Ciri is tear-stained but not weeping anymore when she and Geralt and Yen arrive at Geralt’s rooms. Seeing Jaskier _whole_ is enough to make her start tearing up again, though. “He’s alright?” she begs. “He’ll be alright? Aunt Triss, there was so much _blood_ -”

“He’ll be alright,” Triss promises, kissing Ciri on the head. “But you should stay and help me watch over him. He’ll feel better if he knows _you’re_ safe when he wakes up.”

Geralt hugs his daughter close, and Eskel fishes a handkerchief out of his pocket and hands it to her. Ciri gives him a watery smile and blows her nose.

“Aubry’s on the door,” Geralt says. “Yen, Eskel, with me. Triss, Ciri, stay here.” He bends and kisses Jaskier’s hair softly, then turns and leads the way. Eskel follows, of course.

Aubry closes the door behind them and stations himself in front of it, arms crossed, immovable as a stone wall. Nothing will get through him. Eskel gives him a brief nod of approval: if _he_ isn’t going to be protecting their bard, Aubry is a damn good alternate.

The great hall is packed: every Witcher and every servant in Kaer Morhen is crowded into the vast space, lining the walls and standing on the tables to see. In the center, the clear space before the dais, Lambert has Princess Agata on her knees, one hand knotted in her hair, a knife held rock-steady at her throat.

There are tiny blood-spatters on her shoes.

Eskel breathes in, slow and deep, and under the scent of fear - _good_ , she _should_ be afraid - and the reek of several hundred Witchers’ worth of anger, there’s a faint, faint hint of _Jaskier_. Of the blood-smell which Eskel never wanted to know and now will never be able to forget.

“White Wolf,” Lambert says as they approach, low and furious. “I found our prey.”

“Hm,” Geralt says, and stalks forward to crouch down in front of her. Princess Agata tries to lurch backwards, and runs straight into Lambert’s leg. Lambert chuckles nastily and twists the hand he’s got in her hair. “You stabbed my bard.” Geralt’s voice is low and _angry_ , so angry Eskel is honestly surprised he hasn’t completely gone feral yet. Well, to be fair, Eskel is also surprised he _himself_ hasn’t gone feral yet. What interesting things he is learning about self-control today.

Princess Agata shakes her head, just a little, as much as she can with Lambert’s hand tight in her hair. “No!” she squeaks, and every Witcher in the hall snarls as they hear the lie. “No, I - I didn’t - you can’t -”

“You’re _lying_ ,” Geralt rumbles. “You hurt my lark.” He smiles, and it’s a horrid thing, a cruel line of teeth like a wolf’s snarl. “You’re _lucky_ , princess. He’s not dead. Because if you had killed my lark, you would have died, too, and Vizima with you. Do you understand?”

Princess Agata is weeping with fear. Eskel finds he’s smiling, too, the same thin feral smile Geralt is wearing. “I -” she gasps. “You can’t, I’m - I’m a _princess_ -”

“I am the _White Wolf_ ,” Geralt snarls, and rises. “Volunteers?” he asks the crowd.

Every Witcher snarls, and Geralt laughs, no humor in it at all, dark and cruel as he never is. “Coën, choose three Griffins. Treyse, three Cats. Letho, Vipers. Gerd, Merten, Stephan, three each.” _Bears, Manticores, Cranes_ , Eskel lists off. So they’re taking some from every School. Good. United front. Geralt scans the crowd and nods. “Lambert, Vesemir, Gweld, Gardis, Varin, Hemminks.” Six Wolves, and Geralt himself. Thirty Witchers is an army. He turns slightly. “Eskel, hold Kaer Morhen.”

Eskel would _vastly_ prefer to go with Geralt, but _someone_ has to keep the rest of the Witchers from doing something _stupid_. And he’s the White Wolf’s right hand. Dammit.

He nods. Geralt nods back, gratitude clear in his eyes for just a moment, and then turns to Yen.

“Vizima,” he says softly. Yen smiles, and raises her hands, and the portal starts to form.

Princess Agata weeps harder. Geralt glances down at her and then away again, dismissing her utterly. “Lambert, bring her,” he orders, and steps through the portal, thirty Witchers following him at a trot. Lambert goes last, tossing Princess Agata through in front of him like so much baggage, and then Yen gives Eskel a sharp-edged smile and steps through, and the portal snaps closed behind her.

Eskel is left at the center of the hall, all eyes upon him. He doesn’t sigh. This is what it is to be the Wolf’s right hand.

“Someone go find the princess’s guards and her lady-in-waiting,” he orders. “I want them out the gates within the hour. The rest of the ladies aren’t to leave their rooms - post a watch. Round up all their guards and stick them in one of the bigger cells for now. Anyone else - patrols. If this was part of a planned attack, I want to know about it _before_ any army gets up the Trail. Go.” He doesn’t think it _was_ a planned attack, stupid as it was, but getting a bunch of angry Witchers _out_ of the keep so they can take out their twitchiness on rocks and trees and any unfortunate wyverns that happen to have roosted nearby is better than letting them sit around and stew.

“Aye,” rumble the assembled Witchers, and disperse. The ladies and their guards are going to be terrified out of their wits by angry Witchers, but that’s not Eskel’s problem right now. They can huddle in their rooms and be scared.

 _He_ heads back down to Geralt’s rooms. Aubry nods to him and stands aside to let him in. Eskel finds Ciri asleep in an armchair, Triss petting her hair gently. Jaskier has been bandaged and is sleeping peacefully, his breathing deep and even.

“Everything under control?” Triss asks. Eskel nods.

“Everything under control,” he says, and settles down on the hearth, and draws his sword. It doesn’t _need_ oiling and sharpening, not really, but it’s something to do with his hands, and he _desperately_ needs a little touch of normalcy right now.

Triss stands, a little shaky, and pats him on the shoulder. “I’m going to get Aubry to help me up to _my_ rooms.”

“You alright?” Eskel checks. She _looks_ fine - tired, but fine.

“Just wasn’t expecting to use that much healing energy today,” Triss says. “A nap and a good meal, and I’ll be fine.”

“Good,” Eskel says, and puts a hand over hers on his shoulder, just for a moment. “Thanks, Triss.”

“Can’t let our little songbird die,” Triss says, shaking her head and swallowing hard. “Not our lark.”

Eskel nods. Triss pats him again and leaves, closing the door firmly behind her, and Eskel bows his head over his sword for a moment, listening to the crackle of the fire and the soft chorus of breathing, Jaskier deep and slow, Ciri lighter and faster: two fragile, precious humans that Eskel would kill or die for.

He’s going to have to make sure Jaskier never goes _anywhere_ without a bodyguard ever again. Ciri, too, and isn’t _that_ going to be fun. Cat Witchers, maybe, just so’s they can keep _up_ with her. Aiden and Cedric and Axel. Coën, she likes him. Maybe Letho; Ciri’s got the big Witcher wrapped around her little finger. And for Jaskier...well, Aubry, obviously, and Lambert, because they’ll stick to him like glue _anyhow_ , but Eskel will have to talk to Geralt about picking Witchers from the other Schools, too. Maybe ask around and see if any Witchers want to learn music; if Jaskier is _teaching_ them, he’ll be less likely to object to their constant presence. Might end up with a Witcher choir. That’ll be fun.

There’s an odd tightness in his chest, and Eskel breathes through it, just the way he was taught. Every breath is full of the scent of Jaskier and Ciri, safe, asleep, healthy, _safe_. And this will never happen again. No one will ever get _close_ enough to Jaskier again, no one will ever get close enough to _Ciri_ , there will be a wall of Witchers around them who will die to protect them, and Witchers take a _lot_ of killing.

Eskel has known he’d follow Geralt to the very gates of hell since they were both too young to even know what being a Witcher really _meant_. He’s known he would kill or die for Ciri since the moment she first looked at him and loved him without even noticing his scars. But he’s not quite sure when _Jaskier_ became one of the people whose wellbeing is more important to Eskel than his own.

But he _did_. The fear and horror Eskel felt at seeing him bleeding out on the floor was _far_ more terrible than it would have been if Jaskier were merely a friend, merely Geralt’s beloved. He hasn’t been that _scared_ since - well, since going into the Trial of the Grasses, hearing Geralt scream as Geralt _never_ screamed, and having that sound be the one that followed him into the pain of the Trial.

Since the last time someone he loved was hurting and he couldn’t do a damn thing about it.

Eskel concentrates on the blade in his hands, the steady motion of the whetstone, the near-meditative effect of the routine.

Alright.

He’ll follow Geralt to the gates of hell, guard his back against all comers, be his right hand, chief among his advisors, his voice when he is elsewhere. He’ll guard and guide and teach Ciri, kill or die for her, raise her to be as magnificent as her father. And he’ll protect Jaskier, their little songbird, bard and advisor and tutor and _friend_ , Geralt’s Consort just as soon as Geralt figures out how to ask, watch over him and make sure that no one _ever_ gets another chance to do him harm.

Between the White Wolf, the cub, and the little lark, Eskel’s got his work cut out for him.

Well, he’s never been afraid of a challenge.

Jaskier stirs, just a little, and Eskel sets his sword aside and rises and goes to the side of the bed. Jaskier’s eyes are clear, if slightly confused, and his scent is mostly confusion and worry and only a very little pain, and he smiles up at Eskel like he’s sure that _whatever’s_ gone wrong, he trusts that Eskel has it under control.

His fingers are tapping, just a little, a tiny fidget, and Eskel is so damn relieved he could almost cry.

He doesn’t, of course. He gets Jaskier some water, and reassures him, and leaves him to finish sleeping off his healing, with Aubry to make sure nothing goes wrong.

 _Now_ he can see to getting rid of all the other ladies and their entourages (except maybe Milena de Roggeven, if Jaskier’s right about her) - now that he knows Jaskier is safe, and Ciri is safe, and Geralt -

Well, Geralt is doubtless scaring the piss out of the king of Temeria, and Eskel’s going enjoy the hell out of that story when Geralt gets back, but in the meantime, he’ll make sure that _when_ Geralt gets back, everything is as it should be. Geralt has entrusted Kaer Morhen and its people to him, and Eskel will look after them, Geralt’s hand and voice and will as he has always been.

And once Geralt is _back_ , Eskel will see about having a good brawl so he can work out some of the day’s unpleasantness. He’d like to punch something. Punching something is nice and straightforward and _simple_ , and might help with the tightness in his chest, the worry that has nowhere to go now that everything is very nearly as sorted out as it’s going to get.

With a little luck, if he punches enough things, he’ll be able to sleep tonight, instead of lying awake remembering the smell of Jaskier’s blood, and the bitter copper taste of fear.

 _He’s alive_ , Eskel reminds himself, forcing his memory to replace the image of Jaskier pale and still with one of him weak but _smiling_ , the smell of him sweet and pure without the taint of blood swamping it, the quiet calm of Geralt’s room with two human heartbeats throbbing _alive, alive, alive_ in perfect time.

He’s alive, and Ciri’s safe, and Geralt’s wreaking vengeance. All Eskel has to do is hold everything together for a little while longer.

He can do that.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eskel orders the noblewomen to leave...and gets a bit of a surprise.

Eskel _very nearly_ loses his last scraps of composure when the noblewomen are herded into the great hall and Marta de fucking Roggeven draws herself up imperiously and demands to know by _what right_ he has been so _unforgiveably rude_ to such important persons as herself and the Princess Agata?

“By what _right_?” Eskel snarls, stalking closer to loom over her. The fear-scent from the gathered ladies grows a _lot_ stronger all at once. _Good_. They can remember why, precisely, Witchers are fucking well _feared_.

“I am the right hand of the Warlord of the North,” he says, soft and cruel. “And Princess Agata is lucky she wasn’t gutted and hung from the _battlements_ , my _lady_. She took a knife to our bard, you see, and if he’d died, I wouldn’t be talking to _you_ right now, I’d be helping sack _Vizima_. Frankly, I’d _prefer_ that, but here I am instead.”

“ _Jaskier?_ ” someone asks, in tones of great distress, and Eskel looks away from Marta de Roggeven to see her sister has her hands clasped in front of her chest, eyes wide and full of tears. “She hurt _Jaskier_? Is he alright?”

Huh. She smells genuinely _worried_.

“He’ll live,” Eskel growls, and Milena’s shoulders sag in relief. “But we are _done_ with this nonsense. None of you will ever win the Wolf.” He glares at each of the remaining husband-hunters in turn, and is bitterly pleased when they flinch from his eyes. “And you have worn out our patience. If any of you actually _want_ to stay, you can swear yourself to the Wolf - and I will _know_ if you swear falsely. So will they.” He gestures at the Witchers gathered around their little group, all of them glaring, all of them armed. “If you cannot swear, then get you _gone_. If you’re not out the gates within the hour, I will fucking well throw you out myself, and I will _not_ be careful how you land.”

Marta de Roggeven goes white; the two countesses go an interesting shade of green. Their ladies-in-waiting clutch at their hands, drawing the countesses away towards the hall doors, looking panicked and desperate and _very_ ready to be gone from Kaer Morhen.

Milena de Roggeven glances at her sister; glances at Eskel; swallows hard.

Eskel doesn’t want to say anything. He wants them _gone_ , all of them, these greedy noble bitches who want nothing but power and don’t care who they hurt along the way, who look at Ciri like an obstacle and Jaskier like an enemy and Geralt like a prize to be won. But. To be fair.

He doesn’t want to be fair.

He promised Jaskier.

To be _fair_ , Milena de Roggeven is Jaskier’s friend. Is utterly uninterested in wooing Geralt. Is fond of _Lambert_ , of all the Witchers she could have chosen to adore.

“Milena,” he says, and her head comes up and she meets his eyes with only a bit of a flinch. “Jaskier spoke well of you.” He can’t quite bring himself to _encourage_ her, not now, but - well. He promised. He _also_ can’t bear to think of telling Jaskier he drove away a girl who might be Jaskier’s friend.

Milena glances at her sister again. Her sister _glares_ , and twitches her skirt, a clear beckoning gesture. “We are _leaving_ ,” Marta de Roggeven hisses. “ _Move_.”

Milena de Roggeven takes a deep breath and sinks to her knees in front of Eskel. “I would swear to the Wolf,” she says, voice shaky but clear. Her sister draws in a sharp breath to yell, and strangles the sound in her own throat when Eskel _snarls_ at her.

“Go on,” he says to Milena.

He’s not quite sure what he expects. Witchers don’t swear fealty, really; they acknowledge Geralt as their leader, but in actions more than words. The closest he’s ever heard to an _oath_ is the chorus of “White Wolf” that greets Geralt’s commands. Jaskier never really swore _formally_ ; his words to his father were oath enough, with the truth ringing through them like a bell.

So Eskel is a little taken aback when Milena says, “I beg you bear witness, Witchers all, and you who are the Wolf’s right hand: I swear upon my life that I will be faithful to the White Wolf, Warlord of the North, never cause harm to him nor to those under his protection, and will observe my homage to him completely and without deceit.”

There’s a long moment when Eskel - and, he’s willing to lay good money, every other Witcher in the hall - is just...completely speechless with surprise. It’s not just the _words_ , though those were startling enough. It’s the truth in them, clear as a mountain stream.

He honestly didn’t think she _could_ swear, not truly. He didn’t think _any_ of these pampered noblewomen would be able to genuinely give their loyalty to the Warlord of the North. But he trusts his own nose, and his own ears; and the other Witchers are all looking just as startled as he is. Gascaden catches his eye and gives a tiny shrug and a nod: he heard it, too.

“In the Wolf’s name I accept your fealty,” Eskel says, slightly boggled at his own words, and jerks his head at Gascaden. “Take her down to the Wolf’s rooms, she can sit with the bard,” he orders quietly, and turns to the other noblewomen. “Well? Stop sputtering and get _gone_.”

Marta de Roggeven squeaks and flees - not running, but walking _very_ fast - with the rest of the little cluster of noblewomen on her heels. Gascaden offers Milena a hand up and ushers her away; she looks - and smells - rather astonished at her own daring, but Eskel is _also_ fairly astonished, so that’s fair.

Most of the Witchers follow the noblewomen to make sure they do nothing but gather their baggage and their guards and _leave_. Eskel leans back against the high table and waits, taking comfort in this brief moment of quiet between crises.

Huh. A noblewoman sworn to the Wolf. Eskel has _no fucking idea_ what to do with her, but with luck, Jaskier will already have a plan. Worst comes to worst, they can just seat her next to Lambert at supper and enjoy watching the poor asshole completely fail to flirt. Or maybe Triss needs an assistant, or...they’ll come up with something.

_One_ random noblewoman, and one who has her eye on _Lambert_ not Geralt, can’t possibly be more trouble than the whole pack of husband-hunters were. Might even be useful, somehow. Who knows? If nothing else, having a friend around will make Jaskier happy. That’s worth a little hassle.

Once the noblewomen are gone, he should go look in on Triss, make sure she’s really fine, and check to see if the corridor’s been scrubbed down - Yen magicked it, but having someone go over it with a soapy brush will make _Eskel_ feel better - and thank Jan for keeping his wits about him, and then -

Then maybe he can just sit here and meditate until Geralt gets back.

Look at him being all practical and sensible and shit. Eskel snorts softly. Geralt owes him a drink. Possibly _many_ drinks. If he’d known how much trouble being the Warlord’s right hand was going to be, years ago when he claimed the title…

Well, he’d still have done it. He’d do it again today, knowing everything he knows. He’ll be at Geralt’s side until death, and thank the gods that he’s been lucky enough to spend his life at the White Wolf’s side.

But Geralt _definitely_ owes him something like a fucking _barrel_ of mead.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] I Would Beat With Your Heart As It Beats](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24063016) by [AceOfTigers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AceOfTigers/pseuds/AceOfTigers)




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